


Torremolinos Avalanche

by bees_stories



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Blow Job, Developing Relationship, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Romance, Seduction, intimacy issues, relationship fears, starting over (again)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-30
Updated: 2013-07-30
Packaged: 2017-12-21 21:10:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/904992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bees_stories/pseuds/bees_stories
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John's relationship is complicated. On again, off again. Even though they want each other, they can't quite get it together. John decides to give it one more shot, leading Sherlock to make an uncomfortable confession and an offer that surprises them both. A post-Mary story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Torremolinos Avalanche

***

When John had admitted insomnia was getting the better of him again and hesitantly asked if they might double up, Sherlock had agreed without thinking. He knew that his friend slept more soundly and securely in the presence of a companion, and if it helped him get the rest he needed then there was little reason not to grant the request. But he had not anticipated John walking into the bedroom wearing only a towel slung casually around his hips. Or his sauntering over to the bed and then dropping the towel onto the floor before sprawling provocatively across the duvet.

It becomes obvious that the display is an exercise in bravado when Sherlock finally notices the nervousness in John's eyes. Then it becomes apparent that he is daring himself, as much as Sherlock, to act as he offers a come hither smile and raises his eyebrows in invitation. 

Sherlock fights to keep his jaw from dropping. He only partially succeeds. He knows he is staring gormlessly, and he should question John's actions, but he can't tear his eyes away from John's hand as it strokes his erection to full hardness. "John." His mouth has, in the space of a few, too rapid heartbeats, gone inexplicably dry. He swallows repeatedly to loosen a tongue that seems to have frozen against his upper palate and tries again. "John, what are you doing?" 

John shakes his head, sadly, and then rolls his eyes, as if his intentions couldn't possibly be less unambiguous. He's right, of course. What he wants is perfectly clear. He wants sex. He wants it with Sherlock. And he wants it now. 

To Sherlock's mind, his surprise is justified. They've had sexual dalliances in the past; a no strings arrangement that gave them permission to fulfil their carnal needs without any promises or commitments. But that phase of their relationship had ended even before John had taken and lost his bride.

"What I mean is – " His brain is spinning furiously, and that's making him feel as thick as he probably seems to John. 

John's welcoming smile starts to falter and then it fades entirely. Second thoughts are getting the better of him. He blushes crimson as he looks away, no longer able to meet Sherlock's eyes. "I guess this was a bad idea." 

The shame in John's voice spurs Sherlock into action. "No. John, wait." 

Before he can roll off of the bed and recover his towel, Sherlock pushes up from his chair, the email he'd been composing to a newly minted Manchester detective constable that advised checking the garden for foxgloves and the bins for grapefruit or Seville oranges in cases of death by heart attack when the circumstances were suspect, forgotten as he joins John on the bed.

"You surprised me – " he admits. Quickly he re-evaluates John's recent behaviour. The cases lately had been dull and lacking in interest. John's creative muse had, for the moment, abandoned him leaving them both bored and restless. The speculative glances John had shot in Sherlock's direction were, he thought, to gauge the probability of danger to the furniture and fixtures as the chemical experiments grew increasingly elaborate, and subsequently, dangerous. 

" – that's all. After … " Sherlock doesn't want to say her name. To invoke the spirit of John's dead wife. "I didn't think … " he trails off again because there is nothing he can say that won't compound the damage he has already done. If he'd been half as intelligent as he was reputed to be, he would have hidden his shock behind a delighted smile and worried about John's motivations later. Now they're both feeling wrong-footed and as more seconds tick by, it begins to seem less likely that they'll be able to salvage the playful mood John had tried to establish. 

Throwing caution to the wind, Sherlock reaches forward and takes John into his arms. There's no dramatic swell of music to accompany their first kiss. There's only the soft sound of their breathing, the rustle of cloth as Sherlock's dressing gown brushes against John's bare skin and the creak of the bedsprings as they fall together against the mattress. The kiss is less than perfect. Their faces are at slightly the wrong angle, so Sherlock ends up kissing the corner of John's lips instead of brushing against them full on as he'd intended. It doesn't matter, the kiss still sends a tingle of electricity down his spine. "God, I've missed you," he whispers, and then brushes his lips over John's again. 

John hums his agreement. He kisses each side of Sherlock's mouth before nipping lightly at his lower lip. His hands are busy as well, fingertips tracing lines over Sherlock's nape and shoulders. 

It was clear from John's no holds barred method of seduction that he'd meant to be the aggressor, but Sherlock isn't one to hold back when his passions are so abruptly roused. He throws his leg across John's and rolls them so that he is on top and can look down into John's face. There is no more anxiousness in the blue and gold flecked eyes that look up at him, it's been replaced by raw desire. 

John reaches up and places his palm against Sherlock's chest and then trails his fingers southward until his progress is impeded by the dressing gown tied closed at Sherlock's waist. He pulls at the belt, undoing the bow. "Go on, then," he urges. 

Sherlock straddles John as he clambers to his knees. He pushes the dressing gown off of his left shoulder and then his right. It slips from his arms, landing in a pool of midnight blue silk that covers John's thighs. He picks it up, meaning to cast it off of the bed, but the tie catches his attention. Without really knowing why, he frees it from the confining loops and wraps it around his hand. 

There's always been a playful component to his sexual relationship with John. It is, after all, an extension of their friendship, and even outsiders have commented about their juvenile antics. But handcuffs and restraints have never been a part of their games. They're unpleasant reminders of their work-a-day world and thus, by unspoken agreement, have been banned from the bedroom. But now Sherlock sees potential in the length of silk in his hand; a way it can be used without invoking negative memories. He loops the dressing gown's belt around his wrist, ties it securely, and then extends his arms so that John can complete the act of binding. 

The uncertainty returns to John's expression. "What are you doing?" 

Sherlock considers his words carefully. It wasn't John's marriage that had ended their sexual relationship. He had done it himself by withdrawing his affections and hiding behind the onus of work. Now that John has given them a fresh opportunity to start over, he wants to short circuit any future attempt at sabotaging their happiness. He looks down at his bound wrist, and at the length of dangling silk. "I should think that would be obvious, John. I'm giving myself to you." 

John gapes, and then he swallows. His Adam's apple bobs along the column of his throat as he swallows hard again. He pinches his own wrist and winces.

"Okay, I'm not dreaming. Uh, not that I've ever fantasized about … " He trails off and the blush that stains his cheeks and chest suggests that he has imagined such a scenario, despite his fervent denial. He tilts his head and a frown purses his lips. "Why? Not that I'm adverse to the idea, but this doesn't really seem like you, Sherlock." Despite his confusion, he reaches tentatively for the free end of the silk belt and wraps it loosely around his hand. His expression changes, becoming less bemused and more assertive. "So if I want you to suck me off?"

"Then you have only to say so." Sherlock drops obediently to crouch over John's groin, kisses each thigh in turn, and then wets his lips before engulfing the crown of John's penis. 

John inhales sharply and then he sighs deeply. He reaches out, pulling Sherlock's bound wrist forward as he cups the sides of his head, anchoring him and offering encouragement. 

Gladly, Sherlock draws more of the satin smooth hardness over his tongue, swallowing around it before drawing back slowly. It's been too long since he's held John in his mouth and his jaw and throat tense. He takes a moment to centre himself and recall the necessary muscle memories. His throat and jaw relax and it's much easier to ply his tongue in long, lazy swipes around the shaft before he returns his attention to the head, tickling the sensitive ridge with the tip of his tongue. He dips down, sucking John's balls in turn and then moves lower, lapping over the perineum before kissing his way up to the head and sucking on it again. John begins to leak pre-come, and Sherlock swallows it down as he sucks. 

"Sherlock! Stop!" John tugs at the end of the belt to re-enforce his command. 

Obediently, Sherlock pauses, awaiting John's next order. 

"Come here," he says, tugging at the belt again. 

Sherlock takes his time obeying, planting kisses, nipping gently, caressing John's body with his own until he and John are reclining on their sides, face to face, once more. 

"I was going to seduce you," John mutters against Sherlock's ear before sucking on his earlobe.

"You succeeded the moment you dropped your towel," Sherlock whispers back. He yields to the kisses that John peppers down his neck, enjoying the sensation of want they provoke. "I became your slave." 

John chuckles between kisses. "You'll never be anyone's slave, Sherlock. Not even mine." 

'Especially not mine' goes unsaid, but Sherlock hears it as clearly as if it had been. John truly has no idea of how ruthlessly he has had to work to divorce himself from his feelings so that he will not act upon them. But now that he knows John is no longer out of bounds, he has no desire to deny himself any longer. 

"That's where you're wrong," Sherlock replies. He sounds gruff, but it's only because his throat is constricted, as if his brain is putting up a final defence. Once he admits how his traitorous emotions have betrayed him, there will be no going back. 

John stops his leisurely exploration of Sherlock's body. He stays very still for several seconds before asking, "What do you mean?"

"I mean... " He has to pause and clear his throat. "I mean that when it comes to you, John, I have no will of my own. I may as well be your slave." 

John sits up abruptly. "Of all the times to take the piss, Sherlock." The bitter disappointment in his words make them bite. He unwinds the dressing gown's belt from his hand as he struggles to get out of bed. 

"I'm not." Sherlock sits up as well. "John. I swear to you." 

John's expression remains uncertain as he searches Sherlock's face. His gaze is piercing, and Sherlock feels like the recesses of his soul are being searched. 

"You know, sometimes I don't get you at all, Sherlock." John must see something that resonates as true because he remains perched on the edge of the bed. "You seduced me when you came back, remember? We picked up and it was just as good as it was before you left. We spent three fantastic days in Torremolinos after the Pascal art theft and then … Bam!" 

John claps his hands together suddenly and the noise is a stark contrast to the clipped precision of his words. "Without any warning you morphed into Cyber-Sherlock." He dips his head, staring downward at the crumpled bedclothes for a moment and draws an emotion-laden breath before piercing Sherlock with his gaze once more. "And then, to cap it all off, you took off. To Switzerland, no less."

"I did mention I was going out," Sherlock feebly protests. 

"Yeah, for a newspaper," John retorts. "And when you finally do come home a week later, you're about as affectionate as a block of ice." 

"I panicked," Sherlock mumbles.

Understandably, John is incredulous. "Excuse me?"

This isn't a conversation he'd wanted to have, but circumstances have left him no option. Sherlock avoids John's eyes but he makes an effort to speak more clearly. "I said, I panicked. I was becoming increasingly uncomfortable with what I was feeling and I thought it best to put some distance between us until I could resolve the conflict." 

John's incredulous expression intensifies. "Christ, Sherlock, I knew you had intimacy issues, and that you're skittish about commitment, but I never realised they ran so deep." 

The words cut as keenly as the sharpest knife. His actions had been pure reflex, a reaction to the rising tide of alien emotions with which he had insufficient experience to adequately process. He fights to find words of his own to explain, knowing that no matter what he says it's bound to sound inadequate, and that he will seem cowardly in John's eyes. 

"When I was gone," he explains after an awkward pause, "no, even before I left, I had come to understand how deeply my feelings for you ran. I didn't just care about you, John, I … I loved you … I still love you." 

"Sherlock." John drawls his name quietly as if he's not quite sure he's heard correctly. 

He draws another breath, pushing it past the constriction in his chest before continuing. "You were right about Spain. I was happy. Ecstatic, even. I might have found it within myself to confess my feelings to you then if you hadn't taken my hand in that cinema." 

Without thinking, John had reached out under the cover of darkness and interlaced their fingers. They'd stayed that way for the duration of the film. Such a simple act, the sort of casual affection that couples showed towards one another without care or concern, and yet when he thought about it afterwards, the gesture had felt like a warning. 

"What changed?" John asks the question softly. It's clear he's no longer angry, just understandably confused. 

For a moment Sherlock is back in their hotel room in Torremolinos, staring out the window without seeing the cityscape as one of Mycroft's admonishments about involving himself too deeply and losing his autonomy erodes his happiness. "I was overwhelmed. I'm not used to being a part of something larger than myself." 

John frowns and looks at him sceptically, as if he can't be sure he's hearing correctly. "So rather than taking the risk and finding out it might be a good thing, you pulled away." 

"It's how I am, John," Sherlock concedes. "I'm sorry."

John's quiet as he moves back onto the centre of the bed. He extends his arm and takes Sherlock into his embrace. "I know. Me too. You're so skittish about relationships, always blowing hot and cold, I should have figured it out on my own." He kisses the underside of Sherlock's jaw. "I guess we just need to figure out a way to make you feel comfortable about this." He looks up and the anxiety is back. "You do want this, don't you, Sherlock? To be with me?"

Sherlock nods back, unwilling at first to trust his voice. He swallows around a lump and whispers, "Yes."

"Good. That's good." 

John eases them down onto the pillows before he begins to ply more feathery kisses. He takes his time, not just to re-establish the mood that had been so abruptly shattered, but to allow himself to absorb the impact of what has passed between them. 

"Are you comfortable?" John asks before he returns his attention to Sherlock's lips. They kiss deeply. Their tongues dart into each others' mouths as once more they begin to reacquaint themselves with one another's bodies. 

Sherlock hums his contentment. There is no place he'd rather be than in his bed with John in his arms. 

John's hand drifts down until it comes to rest lightly against Sherlock's inner thigh. Sherlock sighs in response as he's caressed back to full hardness. It's a low and throaty sound; an uninhibited acknowledgement of desire that's at odds with his confession of fear. He's missed John's touch. Fantasized about it. But even in his dreams it hadn't felt this warm. Or this gentle. When John's fingers close over his shaft and his hand begins to move, Sherlock lets his eyelids flutter closed. When he feels the brush of cloth against his chest, he opens them again to see what John is doing. 

He's holding the tail of the dressing gown sash. The other end is still tied firmly to Sherlock's wrist. "I think I get it now. What you were doing earlier. You can't trust yourself, can you, Sherlock? You want this, but you can't trust yourself not to run. You trust me, though, don't you?"

Sherlock nods. John gets it, although it had taken the painful confession for him to truly understand. 

"Okay, so here's what we'll do; to the rest of the world we're just Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, friends and colleagues. But in here, where it's safe, then – " He twists the sash around his wrist and holds it aloft. " – in here, you're mine. And you're safe, because I've got you. Deal?"

Though Mycroft's admonishment still echoes through his skull, Sherlock nods. If one is going to stand on the edge of a precipice, it is better to be anchored, and he knows of no one he trusts more than John. "Deal." 

"Good." John smiles tentatively. "One more thing. I think we need a new code. Something so I'll know the difference between you disappearing into your head because of work and you pulling away because you're getting too far out of your comfort zone." 

Sherlock smiles, abashed, but decides a new code phrase is probably a good idea. Given his past track record, John has every right to make this request. He considers carefully, searching for something that will be significant to them both and unique enough that, if for some reason it must be used before others, it will remain private. "Torremolinos avalanche," he replies at last. 

John repeats the phrase silently. "I get Torremolinos, but avalanche? Because when I think of avalanches I get primal fear followed by the choice of being crushed or smothered by tonnes of … Oh. Yeah. Okay." He appears a bit dumbfounded. "All because I held your hand?" 

Sherlock shrugs. In the pre-dawn hours of that Spanish morning, he'd had an entire vision of the future roll out before him. Nights creeping around the bedroom because he was an insomniac and John a light sleeper. Christmases spent with Mycroft and Harry. Sunset walks along the Serpentine. John with a large red and white bullseye on his back; at greater risk than ever because a lover was a more tempting target than a business partner or a friend.

He might manage in time to get used to the necessary adjustments to their living arrangements, but the idea of their siblings chatting over sherry was appalling. When he let himself dwell on the notion of what going public might do to John's safety, it scared him beyond all reason. "I should have confided in you sooner."

"Yeah, you should have," John replies. "For such a smart man, you can be awfully thick sometimes." He chuckles. "But that's okay, it keeps you from being completely insufferable." 

"Oh, thank you very much." Sherlock tugs on the tie that binds them, catching John off guard and causing him to tumble forward onto Sherlock's chest. John giggles and then he decides to take advantage, rubbing his erection against Sherlock's. "Cheeky," Sherlock gasps as a surge of pleasure rolls outward from the brief contact. 

"Complaining?" John asks as he props himself up onto his elbows and does it again, dipping down and then stretching forward to prolong the caress. 

Sherlock grins. "Not in the least." He bucks his pelvis upwards, ending the conversation.

John guides their bound arms downward and cups his hand around both their shafts as they shift into a more comfortable position. Sherlock folds his fingers over John's and they fall into a rhythm, giving and taking pleasure. 

They stroke in tandem. John keeps his gaze on Sherlock's face, although it's clear that he's tempted to close his eyes and lose himself in the sensations they're generating. But the need to anchor Sherlock in the moment seems paramount. When he sucks his lower lip between his teeth and bites down, the small pain only seems to intensify his pleasure. 

Sherlock inhales sharply, captivated by the intensity of feeling in John's eyes. It's both frightening and exhilarating to be the object of such desire. His hand stills as a rush of emotion washes over him and his fingers tighten involuntarily. John's palm keeps moving, taking them both over the edge before he collapses against Sherlock's chest. 

They rest easy in one another's arms, John's head against Sherlock's heart, their bound arms splayed out to the side. Sherlock reaches for John's free hand and brings it to his lips, kissing the palm and then each fingertip in turn. 

"How do you feel?" John murmurs.

Sherlock knows John is referring not to his physical state, which is obviously satiated, but his emotional one. He pauses, considering, and decides there is only one word that fits. "Safe," he replies as he settles John more comfortably into his embrace.

end


End file.
